


bigger than my body.

by katarama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Car Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Subspace, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nowadays, Jackson’s getting better with the whole letting go thing.  He’s found new ways to do it.  Scott’s hands pinning his wrists, carefully negotiated ahead of time, or Stiles bringing him to the edge and then pulling away, letting Jackson settle back down before Stiles gets his tongue wet with Jackson’s slick all over again.  It’s good, and it lingers, giving Jackson something to hold onto.</p>
<p>Drugs, though?  Are a hard no for him.  They aren't for Scott and Stiles, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bigger than my body.

Jackson has never been good at giving up control.

He always craved it, worked hard to keep it.  He worked hard to cultivate an image, to have the nice car and the pretty girlfriend and the best grades and the brightest future.  He wanted to be perfect, on the top of everything, with every detail of his life secure and in place.  He didn’t care if it made him a dick.  He was pretty comfortable with it, in fact.  It kept people from pressing too hard, from trying to shatter the image that Jackson actually had any measure of control over his life or his feelings, the things he wanted or the way he wanted them.

He occasionally gave himself a few moments to lose control, even back then, back when he was human.  They were always very brief and very intense moments.  He didn’t drink often, but always drank too much when he did, and he always regretted it the morning after, embarrassed and prickly and terrified of the hazy quality of his memories.  What he had with Lydia scared the shit out of him, made him feel weak and vulnerable, even when he could feel in his bones that it was a good thing, that it gave him a satisfying, grounding feeling alcohol couldn’t.  He ran from it, dealt as harsh of a blow to her as he could manage so he could pretend it wasn’t something he needed, the release and the time out of his head, the time to feel _useful_  and _good_  with someone else’s guidance.  Someone who knew him better than anyone else, who he trusted enough to tuck their fingers inside him where he was wet.  Someone who knew best how to push him.

It’s only got worse after the kanima stuff.  It turns out that being controlled by a vengeful teenage creep and a geriatric murderer, that finding out that your body was doing things you don’t remember, that you didn’t want, doesn’t exactly make it easier for you to let go.  It makes Jackson’s already complicated relationship with his body even worse.  The first full moon after he changes is rough.  If he were left with just his alpha to guide him through it, he might not have made it through, might have lost control in an even more terrifying way.

But there was Scott, eyes yellow but voice calming, guiding him through finding an anchor.  And there was Stiles, who Jackson had always thought of as infuriating, more frustrating than he was worth, good for provoking people and chewing on pens and not a whole lot else.  But he helped Jackson, too, when Jackson needed it most, chained him up and sat down next to him and talked, gave Jackson something to focus on.  

Nowadays, Jackson’s getting better with the whole letting go thing.  He’s found new ways to do it.  Scott’s hands pinning his wrists, carefully negotiated ahead of time, or Stiles bringing him to the edge and then pulling away, letting Jackson settle back down before Stiles gets his tongue wet with Jackson’s slick all over again.  It’s good, and it lingers, giving Jackson something to hold onto.

Drugs, though?  Are a hard no for him.

They aren’t for Scott and Stiles.  Stiles actually spends more time smoking after the Nogitsune.  Jackson guesses different people deal with shit in different ways.  Jackson hasn’t ever actually tried it himself, and for all he knows it could be good.  It could be relaxing, could be less hard of a buzz than alcohol used to be.  Scott and Stiles certainly seem like they enjoy it, from the way they talk about it, the way they look when they’re doing it.  Jackson doesn’t think he’s ever seen Scott look so loose and relaxed as when he’s high, except maybe when he’s high and fucked out.  His shoulders loosen, like he isn’t carrying the whole weight of the world on them.  His eyes droop and he laughs more, sometimes admittedly too much, over the inane shit Stiles says.  Stiles sometimes gets a little bit paranoid, and he almost always gets more easily distracted, but he smells less intensely anxious, and he’s always so, so tactile.

Jackson’s fine with that.  He’s not the weed police, and he doesn’t give a shit whether they do it or not.  He’s not going to do it himself any time soon, but the only thing he has against it is that it stinks, especially to his stronger werewolf senses.  The smell gets in his clothes sometimes, and he ends up doing his own laundry when he gets home from hanging out with them to avoid giving himself a headache.  

But, smell aside, it’s not something he can really complain about all that much, because he’s learned there are definitely concrete benefits to having two stoner boyfriends.

* * *

 

Jackson drives to meet Scott and Stiles at the preserve, depositing his Porsche in the parking lot and walking along the worn tire track path that off-road vehicles have carved out over time.  It isn’t a long walk, five minutes through the woods to a clearing where the Jeep is parked.  The whole area reeks of pot, the windows of the Jeep cracked, wisps of smoke curling out around the edges of the glass.  Jackson walks up, knocks on the window and says hello, so the two of them will know it’s him.  The first time he was supposed to meet them there, he didn’t announce himself, and Stiles wouldn’t open up, because he thought it was the sheriff’s department.

“Shit,” Stiles says when the car door finally opens.  It takes him a minute.   His eyes are red, his voice raspy and shot.  His pants are unbuttoned and unzipped, but still sitting on his hips.  His hair is mussed, though Jackson doesn’t know if it’s from Scott’s hands or his own.  Stiles’ puffy, bitten lips don’t serve as much of an indication either way, when he’s been smoking.

“I let all the smoke out, dude,” Stiles says to Scott, dismayed.  He’s high enough as it is that Jackson really doesn’t think it’s something he should be that concerned about.  

“You had to,” Scott says sagely, his voice audible even though Jackson can’t see his face.  “Gotta let the smoke out to let the Jackson in.”

The two of them already have the seats disassembled and put away, the front seats pushed up as far as they can.  There’s actually not a ton of room, considering how huge Stiles’ shitshow of a car is, but there’s enough.  None of their paraphernalia is still around, probably already tucked away in the glove compartment in case they get caught.  It leaves enough room for Scott and Stiles to fit comfortably.  Scott and Stiles tangle their legs together, anyway, practically on top of each other, and Scott and Jackson are both short enough that if they angle themselves diagonally, they can lay down with their legs fully extended.

“Right,” Stiles says, considering this carefully.  “Jackson dick is better than hotboxing?”

“Of course it is, asshole,” Jackson says, his indignance making a slow grin slide across Stiles’ face.  Stiles scoots over half-assedly, making space for Jackson to slide through, and though his pants aren’t off, Jackson gets a strong enough whiff of him to realize that Stiles smells strongly of come.  Jackson must’ve missed round one, then.  Stiles closes the door behind him, and Scott pulls himself up to a sitting position so he can tug Jackson over to sit between his legs, his arms wrapped around Jackson.

“You smell tense,” Scott tells him.  “Neither of us is tense right now.  You should let us take care of that.”

“I don’t know, if Stiles isn’t that into my dick…” Jackson says.  He knows Stiles was teasing, and he’s not really all that sensitive about it.  Not today, at least.  And not usually with them, not when they’ve both made it perfectly clear in the past, with their hands and their mouths and their words, that they are very appreciative of Jackson’s dick.  He doesn’t mind hearing it again, though.  Or hearing them ask for his dick.

“He’s been wanting to suck you off all day, dude,” Scott reassures him.  Scott’s hands start to wander, one sliding under Jackson’s shirt, making slow, gentle, rubbing circles against Jackson’s abs.  It’s a lot more soothing than Jackson would have expected, and he can already feel himself starting to loosen some, to let Scott’s body support him.  

“I was telling him when he fucked me after chem,” Stiles agrees.  “How good you taste when I get you all worked up, how good your dick feels when I suck it between my lips.  How easy it is to suck you through one right after another, until you can’t help but squirm, your whole body shaking.”

Jackson’s wet just listening to Stiles, the way the weed makes his voice sound wrecked just talking about it.  Scott’s already started unbuttoning Jackson’s jeans, his fingers fumbling a little with the zipper at the weird angle, and Jackson takes it over for him.  He lifts his hips, sliding his fingers under his boxers and pulling them off with his pants, kicking them off the rest of the way.  Scott tugs him back closer, pressing the curve of Jackson’s bare ass against his crotch.

“You smell so good,” Scott says in Jackson’s ear, his breath warm and voice soft.  Soothing.  If his boyfriends weren’t high, he’d let it carry him under from the start, let it take him down a notch.  He usually waits, a little, when they’re like this, to make sure everyone’s in a good place for it.  It doesn’t stop Jackson’s whole body from shivering with it, though.  It doesn’t stop Jackson’s nipples from perking up, or make Jackson any less affected when Scott’s hand finds Jackson’s slick, thumbs at Jackson’s cock.  

“Just relax,” Scott says.  “Let us make you feel good.”

So Jackson does.  Scott plays with Jackson’s dick with his fingers until Jackson is soaked, until he can feel his precome dripping onto the floor of the car.  Jackson’s eyes slip closed, and he loses track of time, his calves nearly cramping from being tensed so long, kept close but not quite there with Scott’s fingers just a bit too slow, just a bit too gentle.  He gets caught up in the way he aches to come, and he almost forgets that Stiles is there until he feels his knees being pulled up and apart, his body maneuvered easily by strong hands and long fingers.

“You can come when Stiles’ mouth is on you,” Scott tells Jackson, and Jackson takes it to heart, his whole body jerking, his breath catching when Stiles licks a stripe up to Jackson’s dick and replaces Scott’s fingers with his lips, a sharp suck that finally feels like what Jackson needed.

“Just let go,” Stiles urges when Jackson catches his breath.  Stiles can always tell when Jackson hasn’t, without fail, can tell when Jackson is somewhere in the middle, loose but not under.  “We’ve got you.”  Stiles’ hands rest on Jackson’s thighs, constant, steady pressure, and he’s licking Jackson’s come off his lips.  Scott’s still wrapped around Jackson, big and warm and comforting.  

It’s hard to ignore an instruction like that, especially when Jackson needs it.

Stiles sucks him through another three orgasms, one sliding almost seamlessly into the next.  Jackson’s dick is oversensitive, his hole so wet he can’t tell what’s his slick and what’s Stiles’ spit, anymore.  Stiles just keeps giving and giving, and Jackson’s body responds, unhindered by his insecurities and hesitations.  He feels like he’s no longer running on overdrive, no longer clinging to control, no longer trying to assert himself.  He doesn’t need to be perfect when he’s bracketed in by them, doesn’t need to be ashamed of his breasts and the way Scott touches them, tugging at the nipples until they’re sore, and Jackson’s thighs squeeze tight around Stiles’ head.  He doesn’t need to be ashamed of the noises he makes, breathier than he would like, whimpering.  Scott tells him that they’re perfect, that they’re exactly what he wants, that Jackson’s noises are good and sexy, turning them both on.

Jackson feels completely fucked out by the time the two of them are done.  When Stiles pulls away, Jackson’s come coats his face.  He leans over Jackson, straddling Jackson’s hips, and lets Scott lick it off, Scott’s lips and teeth and tongue finding Stiles’.  They share the taste of Jackson and Stiles and weed, a heady combination that makes the weed smell somehow more palatable.

“You should make him feel good, too,” Jackson tells Scott.  Stiles and Scott praise Jackson for being thoughtful, and Jackson glows.  He may feel like he’s floating, may feel fuzzy and warm and loose, but he doesn’t always need the focus to be on him.  He always loves watching Scott and Stiles together, and he loves when suggesting it makes his boys happy with him.  Jackson lets Scott untangle himself from Jackson’s limbs, crossing his legs and leaning back against the car wall for support as Scott moves over to Stiles.

Scott asks Stiles what he wants, but Stiles is already pulling his pants off, sliding his slick fingers into his hole.  He’s still loose from being fucked earlier, but Scott takes his time lubing up and checking with his fingers.  Jackson thinks it’s because he gets distracted by kissing Stiles, more than out of any kind of intense concern for Stiles not being open enough.  Scott loves kissing when he’s high.  He says it’s a sensual thing, something about his lips buzzing.  All Jackson knows is that it’s amazing to watch, Scott and Stiles’ kissing familiar, the two of them knowing each other’s bodies so well that even kissing feels like intense foreplay in a way Jackson isn’t used to.

Watching them fuck is even nicer, especially when they’re high.  Scott takes ages pressing in, and his hands wander, hovering over Stiles’ hips, Stiles’ nips.  There’s more kissing when Scott finally bottoms out, accidental teeth knocking together that sets them both off into a round of giggles, Scott’s head resting on the dip of Stiles’ shoulder and huffing a laugh into his skin.  When Scott finally starts to fuck Stiles, it’s just as slow and just as intimate, neither of them in any hurry.  They like to take longer when Jackson’s watching, anyway, to give him a show, a reward for being good.  Jackson always gets so used to watching them together, just the slow, lazy (sometimes uncoordinated) movements, that it somehow surprises Jackson when they both come.  He’d forgotten that was the end goal, and not just their bodies pressed together, sweat sticking their skin together, moans swallowed by each other’s mouths.

Sometimes they talk more.  Sometimes they talk a lot, about stuff completely unrelated to sex.  Sometimes Jackson wonders how it doesn’t turn them off, doesn’t end in them halting sex altogether to talk about it.  Jackson doesn’t think he understands Weed Brain very much, even as much as he’s seen the two of them high together.  It could just be how horny the two of them both always get when there’s drugs of any kind in their system.  But Jackson thinks it’s probably more than that, probably more connected to the way they are with each other, the way they always feel like they can create their own little world for themselves to get lost in, where just about anything can be sexy.  

Sometimes, in these moments, the gravity of it hits Jackson, the warmth and knowledge that they’ve brought him into these moments, that they let him see and touch them there.  That they let him in and made him a part of them.  

Scott comes inside Stiles, and Stiles complains about how gross that’s going to be when he actually cares about how messy he is.  Jackson doesn’t think Stiles ever actually cares about how messy he is.  But Scott just kisses him again, tells him he likes Stiles smelling like his couple, and the two of them work their way back and settle on either side of Jackson.

“How are you doing?” Scott asks, looking Jackson in the eyes carefully.  There were a few times early on when Jackson got anxious, letting go, and it went to a bad place.  Jackson’s nowhere near there, now, though.  He’s a little bit hot, and his butt isn’t going to be happy later about the rough, uncomfortable rug on the floor of the Jeep.  But he feels good, and when Stiles rests his head on Jackson’s shoulder and Scott wraps his arm around him, he feels even better.

“Missing the bed,” Jackson admits.  “But good.”

They lay around together for the afternoon, long enough for Jackson finally to find his way back up and for Scott and Stiles to wear off the last of their high.  Jackson wishes they could just stay there, doing and talking about nothing important, no pressure weighing any of them down.  But they can’t.  Jackson has homework that needs doing and lacrosse that needs practicing, and Scott’s mom expects him and Stiles to be home for dinner.

The stress will come back before too long.  But for now, Jackson has a couple new marks that Scott sucked into his thighs before Jackson put his pants back on, and Jackson has some chill that will last at least the rest of the day, maybe even a few days.

Jackson doesn’t think he’s ready for weed, not for a good long while.  But handing control over to someone safe, to Scott and Stiles, even for only a little bit, feels like just what Jackson needed.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](http://sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
